


Unconscious

by sshysmm



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Book 4: Pawn in Frankincense, Exhaustion, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Road Trips, the band Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21381016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Leaving the ashram together, the band worry about Lymond's fitness to travel, but he seems to be peacefully asleep.--Written for Whumptober 2019, set in the Band AU I've been writing (see collections).--There's 31 of these ficlets and I apologise profusely for burying other work in the tags. I will *always* tag these as 'the band au' and you can usethis nifty extension (ao3rdr)to block the tag if this isn't your thing and isn't what you want to see in the Lymond tags!
Kudos: 4
Collections: Ficlets in the Lymond Band AU for Whumptober 2019





	Unconscious

It was going to be a long day’s drive.

In the back seat of the pickup two bodies lay unconscious: golden curls and silver ringlets tousled gently by the hot Nevada wind. The toddler seemed too weighty a burden for Lymond’s thin chest, but it was unthinkable that anyone should disturb their peace. Khaireddin’s suntanned, chubby knees wrapped around his father’s ribcage, and the musician’s long hands folded the child close.

An observer would have had to look carefully to see that all was not quite the picture of health and contentment that it seemed. Lymond’s breath was shallow and his skin clammy; his forearms prickled with goosebumps even in the warmth of the sun, and in his hold the boy whimpered in his sleep, his dirty hands clenched into worried fists. Neither slept soundly, but they took refuge from consciousness however they could and shared snatched moments of exhaustion. Necessity had wrestled those who could not afford to let their guard down into submission.

Philippa sidled into the middle seat and shushed the other boy, the one with straw yellow hair and large, liquid eyes. He squirmed on her knee, but regarded Khaireddin and Francis with a look of grave seriousness; then, bashful, he turned his head to her shoulder and nuzzled into her straight dark hair.

Archie joined them in the back of the pickup, and in the driver’s seat, Marthe glanced over for confirmation from Jerott. All it took was a minute dip of his chin and they were away, the truck’s engine revving with guttural, liquid noise; diesel fumes panting from its rusty frame.

A fine line wavered between Lymond’s brows as the truck rumbled over stone and scrub, and it was echoed by the frown on Marthe’s face as she glanced up to the rear-view mirror.

“Do you think Oonagh and Mikhal made it?” Jerott asked, quietly enough that only she could hear.

Marthe’s knuckles flexed on the wheel and she chewed her lower lip. "Yes. That woman would have driven through a wall of men to get out of here. She’ll have gotten them there.“

"We should find a phone and call the motel. Just in case.”

Her dusty face twitched, her blue eyes thin and focussed on the horizon. “I want to get as far away from here as possible first.”

Jerott followed her eyes as they returned to the mirror. “He won’t travel all day.”

“No. He won’t,” she agreed. “But he has to last for a few hours. It’s best if he can stay asleep.”

Lymond, far from sleep though he leaned with care and stillness against the pickup’s frame, was chilled to his core. He worried that it would affect the sleeping child he held, but Khaireddin’s body continued to radiate a generous, uncomplicated warmth. Without complaint, unused to soft bedding or indoor heating, the boy slept deeply even against the cool, bony surface of Lymond’s sternum. Lymond himself felt as though his limbs had been compressed in some legendary torture device; his body screamed and he heard every syllable of the pain. Trying to detect something other than his own suffering, he focussed on the murmur of voices in the front of the pickup, and he knew that they worried about him. About what more he could endure.

Considering this himself, with his eyes closed against the remorseless sun, he swallowed down a wave of dry nausea. With it came guilt: guilt for arriving so late, for letting this happen, for the way that now, when he should have been comforting his child, it was Khaireddin’s weight and warmth that instead brought him comfort.


End file.
